A Journey by Chance (7 page)

Gina was stunned. There was no other word for it. Mr. Homespun was a bestselling novelist, and no one had even mentioned it! Aunt Lottie apparently wasn't aware of the magnitude of that “something he had published a while back,” as she described it. Lauren had said the books were… what? Awesome. The same word the clerk had used and with the same emphasis. Lauren had not indicated he was nationally known. Well, in truth, Gina hadn't paid attention to what she said.

Would it have made a difference if she had? Probably not. He still would have been an annoying nuisance with a chip on his shoulder. After the visit to the cemetery, though, she had a pretty good idea of the source of his attitude.

If she was going to keep running into the man for the next few weeks, she needed to get over her embarrassment. Perhaps the best defense would be to arm herself with information, to protect herself from being caught again by surprise.

She knew about Rosie. She'd better learn what she could about this farmer who wrote awesome novels in his spare time.

Gina carried the new release by Brady Olafsson to the checkout counter. It seemed that a good place to begin learning about the man would be to read about the Nazarene.

It was 3:30.

Brady stomped into a Marshall Field's elevator, jabbed his thumb against the top floor button, then bit back the first word that sprang to mind. He wiggled his thumb. It didn't appear to be fractured. He exhaled sharply.

Women!

Of course they would be late. He knew it. He just knew it. From the moment he told Lauren sure, come along, he knew she and her friends would miss the 2:30 meeting time. He knew he'd be hanging out in the city long after his lunch was over.

He had stood on the corner of State and Monroe for 30 minutes before spotting them rushing toward him, shopping bags bumping along among them. That was at 2:58. There was still a sliver of a chance they could race two blocks to where the van was parked and hit the freeway by 3:15.

That was before their breathless apologies and excuses and stories, before he noticed Gina Philips wasn't with them. With a sinking feeling he realized rush hour would be in full swing before he could sort through their babble. He suggested they continue shopping and meet again at 6:00. They had a better idea! They were taking him to dinner at 5:30, at an Italian restaurant just a few blocks away. And meanwhile could he take a few of their bags to the van and then fetch Gina?

The elevator doors swished open now. Brady stepped out, loped past the elegant Walnut Dining Room and into a large,
bright space of food merchandise displays and open eating areas. She was supposed to be at a table near the first window he would see on his left.

He saw her, elbows propped with head in hands, bent over a newspaper. Her left leg was stretched out and resting on another chair. Lauren told him that Gina had tired from so much walking. After stopping here for ice cream, she convinced the others to finish their shopping without her. She would stay put and read until someone came for her at 2:20.

Obviously she was a patient woman. He, on the other hand, had run out of patience some time ago on the first floor of this huge store that covered an entire city square block, trying to figure out where they hid the elevators. He wouldn't have minded so much meandering around downtown Chicago by himself, but now he faced two hours alone with a lame porcupine. What was he supposed to do with her?

He approached the table. “Hello.”

She glanced up at him, then quickly looked back down.

Brady's stomach twisted. Her face was tear-streaked. “Gina?” His anger instantly dissipated. He pulled out a chair across the table from her and sat down. “Are you all right? Does your leg hurt?”

She buried her face in a paper napkin and shook her head.

He would have chosen a porcupine over a crying woman any day. She looked as if she needed a hug. “Can I do something?”
Besides give you a hug,
he added silently.

She took a deep, tremulous breath. “No.” Her eyes were liquid emeralds. “It's—” Her lower lip quivered and she bit it.

“What?”

She pointed at the newspaper and winced. “My elephant died.”

“Your elephant?”

“Delilah.” She caught the puzzled look on his face. “Oh, she wasn't
mine
mine. I mean, I took care of her at the Park. She was special. She—” Her face crumpled again.

He had forgotten she was a vet. “I'm sorry. Was she sick or just old?” Totally of its own accord, his hand covered hers on the table.

Gina's eyes widened and her breath caught. “Uh, no.” She shook her head slightly. “She wasn't sick or, uh, old. Um, it's kind of a long story.”

“It must be a shock.” His touch seemed to have staunched the flow of tears. “And you just found out, sitting here in downtown Chicago?”

She glanced toward the window, nodding. “I thought I'd buy a big-city newspaper and read some real news.”

“Stuff you can't get in the
Valley Oaks Weekly Times
?”

“No offense.”

“None taken. My copy of the
Tribune
is in the van.” He smiled.

“Van. Oh my goodness!” She slid her hand from under his and looked at her watch. “What time is it? We're late, aren't we? I'm sorry.”

“No, it's not your fault. The others were late, so we've changed plans.” He stopped, thinking of how her hand had felt beneath his. It was broad with long, slender fingers. Strong. A doctor's hand.

She hurriedly folded the newspaper and stuffed it into a shopping bag, gathered it along with her purse, and lowered her leg. “The rush hour traffic must be impossible here.”

“Mmm, yes, it is. It's best to wait it out. We're, uh, going to meet for dinner at 5:30.” Again he stopped. Her eyes were still red. There was a speck of dried tear salt on a cheek. He resisted the urge to rub his thumb over it. Her chocolate hair was smoothed back into a ponytail low on her neck. She wore the tiny gold hoop earrings.

“Oh.” She glanced at her watch again. “Well, I can stay put. I'm sure you have things you could do.”

He gave himself a mental shove. A good-looking chick sat across the table from him. One of the world's most fascinating cities lay just beyond the window. Now what exactly was his problem? “Let's go exploring. I had the Art Institute in mind.”

A blush tinged her cheeks. “Well, I, uh, I think I've walked my limit today. I should have worn my brace, but I wasn't expecting a major hike across concrete—”

“I'm sorry.” Where was his mind? “Of course. That's the whole reason you're sitting here. Well, let's see…we could, um, ride. How about a bus tour? They leave every 15 minutes or so.”

She shrugged, sniffled, looked out the window, bit her lip. And then finally smiled. “Okay.”

Something inside of him melted. The porcupine would definitely have been easier to deal with than Gina's Miss America smile.

Delilah was dead.

Gina wiped at the corner of her eye and gazed up at the passing skyscrapers.
Let it go. You're in Chicago, riding on top of a crowded double-decker bus, sitting next to an annoying nuisance who is being incredibly kind and hasn't told a joke for at least an hour.

“Are you cold?” Brady asked her.

“A little.” She crossed her arms and willed herself to stop shivering. The sun still shone from a brilliant blue sky, but despite her new sweater the breeze still felt cool from many open windows on the upper deck.

“Put this on.” He had shrugged out of his sport coat and was holding it open for her.

“Thanks.” She leaned forward to let him drape it over her shoulders. “You don't need it?”

“Nah, I was getting too warm.”

The bus slowed to a stop and the tour guide's voice, amplified through a loudspeaker, began describing a huge Picasso sculpture that covered a large area of a plaza on their right.

“Well, I'll be switched,” Brady drawled in an exaggerated manner. “I can't tell if that's a horse or a cow.” He craned his neck to look around her through the window.

“What?”

He glanced sideways at her, his eyelids half closed. Most of those blue-green eyes hid behind thick blond lashes. “Well, the thing is,” he continued the drawl, “you know you're from the Midwest if you can tell a horse from a cow at a distance. And gosh durn it, in this case I can't tell.”

He sounded absolutely pathetic. She burst out laughing.

“And I'm about as Midwestern as they come. Born and raised on a farm.”

She wiped her eyes again. At least the tears were caused by laughter this time. He was helping, bizarre as that thought would have sounded this morning.

When he found her in Marshall Field's, she had just read the news about Delilah. Of course the elephant's death hadn't been a surprise, but all the same, knowing that it had happened grieved her. If Brady hadn't walked up at that moment, she didn't know what she would have done. Probably bawled until an employee intervened and called security.

He had saved her from that embarrassment, but she couldn't think straight. Brady offered a plan, and it was as if he threw her a lifeline. Instinctively, she grabbed hold.

He waited while she stopped in the ladies' room to splash water on her face and assess the damage. Her face was a
wreck. She popped open the barrette at the back of her neck and brushed back the loose strands of hair. Good thing she hadn't applied mascara this morning. She blew her nose one more time, found eyeshadow and a compact in her purse, and fixed what she could, all the while imagining what this news meant.

Delilah's death would have an impact on the lawsuit, but there was nothing to be done about it except fret. Better to go with the flow and take a bus ride. Her attorney and other vets were in control now. She had to put it out of her mind.

Brady offered his arm when she stumbled getting into the elevator. Ibuprofen had helped the throb in her leg, and the swelling about the knee had lessened, but things were still a bit stiff. She grasped his elbow for a moment, and he took the shopping bag from her hand. Inside the bag was mint chocolate candy she had found for Aunt Lottie, a towel set Lauren had admired, and Brady Olafsson's newest release. Before picking up the newspaper, she had read the first chapter of his book. The story and writing style quickly caught her attention.

Once they reached outside, Brady easily hailed a cab that whisked them a few blocks to a busy intersection where a tour bus sat waiting just for them, it seemed. He quickly purchased two tickets and ushered her to the upper level where they found the last available seat. Nonstop from the elevator to the bus he talked of his impressions of the city. He even struck up a conversation with the taxi driver and learned he was from Morocco and had a wife and two kids.

Her stomach ached. The grief simmered just below the surface. If she had been there, could she have prevented the elephant's death?

“Wanna hear another one?” Brady peered at her closely.

She blinked. “What?”

“Do you want to hear another joke? You look lost in space again.”

She turned her head toward the window and swallowed. The bus was moving.

“Would it help to talk about it? I've been told that sometimes I can listen instead of talk.”

She shook her head. It was too soon to put the feelings into words. They would be incoherent. Another lump formed in her throat. She didn't want to cry in front of him again! The bookstore clerk's remarks about Brady's shoulders sprang to mind. She had been right—they appeared the perfect height and breadth for crying on—but Gina wasn't about to test out the theory. She kept her face toward the window.

“Of course, we are strangers. I certainly wouldn't be inclined to tell you what's bugging me either.”

She looked at him now.

He stared beyond her, out the window. His hair was just long enough for the breeze to catch it, lift it up.

They had progressed beyond total strangers. She nestled in his jacket, warmed in its roominess. The laid-back farmer was an author and a perfect gentleman and completely at home in the big city. These things she knew about him. And she knew he liked to tell jokes. And she knew she simply had to end this verge-of-tears nonsense. “It's your jokes, Brady.”

He raised his brows.

“Your jokes are bugging me. As a matter of fact, they drive me bonkers.”

He snorted. “You obviously don't understand them. Anybody who says ‘bonkers' would not appreciate my sophisticated jokes.”

“Bingo.” She smiled. “How did your meeting go?”

He missed a beat and stared at her for a full minute. “That sounds like an invitation to get acquainted.”

She shrugged.

He shrugged back. “It went well. My editor is in from New York for a couple of days. We had lunch and discussed my next book. Ironed out a few wrinkles.”

“I'm sorry I didn't even know about your books until today.”

“Don't apologize. There was no reason you would know, was there?”

“I guess not. I've never paid much attention to historical fiction.”

“It's funny. Even in Valley Oaks, not everyone knows about them.”

“Shouldn't you be on a book tour or something for the new release?”

“Just got back. I have a couple of things coming up in August, but then I'll stay put through harvest season. I can pretty much make my own schedule.”

“How did you come up with the idea? I mean, a fictionalized account of Jesus' life? For adults?”

Brady settled back into his seat. “I just always wondered what went on between the lines in the Bible. Really, what was it like to walk for miles on end wearing sandals? And the people who came to Him, what were their personalities, their backgrounds? I guess I've been imagining for a long time. Church was pretty boring when I was a teenager.”

“Did you major in creative writing?”

“Nah. Agriculture with a minor in English.” He grinned. “For real. You can't make a living at writing. I taught English for five years at a high school over in the next county. Writing and farming kept getting in the way. Now I write full time, but still help out on the farm with my dad and brother.”